The Ocean Calls Tomorrow
by sea salt
Summary: They’re tired, worn down, and Castiel is beginning to understand. Gen, Castiel-centric


**Title:** The Ocean Calls Tomorrow  
**Genre:** Gen  
**Rating:** PG-13 (Language)  
**Characters:** Castiel, Dean, Sam  
**Spoilers:** Up to 5.14  
**Word Count:** 4265  
**Summary:** They're tired, worn down, and Castiel is beginning to understand.

* * *

_The Ocean Calls Tomorrow_

Castiel finds Dean in an empty beach house overlooking the ocean. The sand is clean and white and very bright to Jimmy Novak's poor, delicate eyesight, and the wind works it into the folds of Castiel's clothing, beneath the collar of his trench coat and the cuffs of his jacket underneath. He stands close enough to the shore that the water can touch the tips of his shoes when the waves roll in, and the air tastes like salt when he breathes.

He watches the horizon, listens to the sound of water and feels the sand itch strangely against his throat and wrists until his cell phone buzzes against his hip, tucked away in his pocket. Castiel reaches for it, flips the top and squints through the glare of yellow sunlight catching across the small screen.

Dean's message says, _dude where r u??_

Castiel snaps the phone shut and shifts inside, appearing in front of Dean just in time to grab his shoulder and steady him before he falls.

One of Dean's arms is outstretched and he turns it in one full circle through the air, centering his balance. He blinks at Castiel.

"Hey."

"Hello, Dean."

"You can let go now, you know."

Castiel does, and follows when Dean continues to limp slowly down the hallway.

"Squatting with class this time, right?" Dean says when he's sitting on the bathroom floor, the left leg of his sweatpants hiked up so he can peel away the bandage wrapped around his calf. The wound beneath is red and raw, three gashes cut deep into muscle and two puncture marks above it, nearly level with the back of Dean's knee.

"Where's Sam?"

"Out taking care of that fucking hellspawn or whatever it was that went all Cujo on me. Pass me that." Dean points to a bottle sitting on the closed lid of the toilet seat, and Castiel picks it up and gives it to him. Dean uncaps the lid, presses the open neck to a folded towel and then the towel to his skin, his eyes narrowing as he pulls in one short, tight breath.

"Fuck, mother_fuck_. Sam better burn the shit out of that thing."

"Should I find him?"

"Nah. If he needs help he'll call. Think he kind of wanted a breather anyways. Prove himself to himself or some bullshit like that."

Castiel inclines his head but Dean isn't paying attention. He tapes the bandage and reaches for the counter ledge to yank himself up, but it's centimetres out of reach.

"Fuck, Cas?" He holds a hand up to Castiel and Castiel stares only for a moment before gripping his wrist, fragile bones and a thin layer of skin and flesh pressing warmly into his palm. He pulls Dean to his feet and stands next to him as he sways, balance off-set, but Dean manages to limp into the kitchen without help. His pack is sitting on the counter and he begins rummaging through it as Castiel stands in the doorway.

"Why did you call me?"

"What, were you busy?"

"I'm searching—"

"Yeah Cas, I know. But we kind of haven't seen you in two weeks, and it's good to know that you're still alive every once and awhile. Where have you been, anyways?"

"Many places."

"Such as?"

"Nunavut. Berlin. Kenya. Huangshan."

"Huh." Dean looks up. "How were they?"

Castiel frowns, because that question doesn't make sense. "They're all different, Dean." And Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

"Lemme rephrase. Which ones did you like?"

Castiel wants to answer 'all of them' but he's already thinking of the mountains, cold untouched air and clouds swirling around rocky peeks. The distance between him and the sky.

He opens his mouth to answer but Dean has already moved on. He grabs Castiel's arm as he limps by and spins him around, opening the screen door and waving at him to follow.

--

It's been nearly a month since Sam stood before Famine, curled his fingers into a fist and ripped the horseman apart from the inside out. Castiel knows the guilt that curls in Sam's stomach, the doubt and _God, oh God, am I strong enough? Can I control it?_ He knows the suffocating expectations Dean holds himself to, the hollow pit in his chest that he can't pretend isn't there anymore.

They're tired, worn down, and Castiel is beginning to understand because he travels across the world and back to them and each time he still has nothing more to offer. His Grace sputters, frays along the edges and Castiel will not be able to keep knitting it back together forever.

He thinks of Raphael, absolute and fierce, fire lighting up his face and flickering across his strangely human eyes.

_We're tired. We just want it to be over. We just want_—

Castiel tries not to dwell on it.

--

Dean kicks off a pair of sandals that don't belong to him and are too large for his feet. He lowers himself slowly down onto the beach, placing himself beneath a tall red and white umbrella sticking out from a small hill of sand. Castiel sits next to him.

"Dude," Dean says. "Take off your shoes."

He does, slowly because he has never untied his laces before. At Dean's prompting he also removes his socks, rolls them together and shoves the ball into one of Jimmy Novak's bland, black dress shoes. Castiel sets them aside, looks down and wiggles the toes of his bare feet experimentally, watches muscle react and skin stretch.

Dean digs a rut into the sand with his heel as he unscrews the bottle that he carried down with him and drinks from it, one long pull that ends with him exhaling slowly and licking his lips. He raises his eyebrows and holds the bottle up to Castiel, offering. Castiel takes it and drinks, and the whisky is a smooth burn down his throat.

"You know it's funny," Dean says when he takes the bottle back, twisting the base of it into the sand so it will sit without tipping. "That an angel would actually like booze as much as you do. Better watch that, Cas."

"It doesn't have an effect."

"You don't really _know_ it doesn't, you just haven't downed whatever ridiculous amount it would take to get drunk. Which you shouldn't, by the way. And it's kind of weird that you just like the taste then."

"You like the taste."

"Not when I first tried it."

Castiel considers, and shrugs a shoulder. "Taste is… strange. Different. There's not usually something there to dislike."

"Oh yeah?" Dean hikes an eyebrow and Castiel's eyes slide to him because he knows the tone of voice, the expression, but not why Dean's amused. "Does that mean you could go for a burger?"

Castiel's nose wrinkles before he consciously makes the decision to do it, and Dean laughs, laughs like he did when he dragged Castiel away from that whorehouse with an arm thrown over his shoulders: deep, surprising and real.

They sit together and drink from the bottle of whisky and watch the water pull back and forth from the shore. It's hot and a bead of sweat trails down Dean's jaw when he lies back, muttering something about the sand and how he should have grabbed a fucking towel as he crosses his arms behind his head and angles his neck so the shade of the umbrella falls across his eyes. Castiel slips his feet into the sand, and it's rough and warm against this skin. He lifts his leg, and the sensation of the sand tumbling away is strange, so he repeats the action. The wind picks up enough to tug at the edges of his trench coat and blow his tie over his shoulder.

They stay that way for a long time without speaking. The sun climbs along the sky and the shadow of the umbrella pivots further and further over Dean. When it stretches down to his sternum, Dean laughs to himself, sudden and quiet. His eyes are bright flecks of green when he opens them. "Paradise is a fucking beach, isn't it Cas?"

"Not quite."

"It should be. Shit."

Dean says nothing else for an hour and a half, drifts along the borders of unconsciousness and slowly falls asleep. A seabird flies over the shore, riding wind currents and being carried further and further up without wasting the effort of flapping its wings.

Castiel doesn't know how long Dean dreams before he notices (_Alistair slits him open naval to throat, jabs the blade between Dean's ribs to crack them apart and slowly removes his heart. His smile is made of yellow, crooked teeth, and he leans in close to whisper "you're dead Dean, you're already dead inside."_). He turns to press two fingers to Dean's temple but he's already awake, jerking himself upright, air catching in his throat and coming back out in a shuddering gasp. Dean swears, sits with his good leg curled at the knee and a hand over his eyes.

"Dean."

"Leave it, Cas. Just leave it alone."

--

Castiel moves across continents when the beach grows dark and steps into Budapest just as his cell phone vibrates with a new message from Sam. He feels the briefest flicker of exasperation, stares down the street and grips the phone too tightly in his hand. There are so many more places to search and he has no time, never had the time, but he is already reaching for Sam's location because Castiel can't not choose a Winchester first.

He arrives in front of an empty warehouse, a thick chained looped around the door to seal it shut with Sam standing next to it, hands shoved into his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"I found the demon that summoned the spawn. Or, one of them anyway, I have a feeling he's not working alone."

Castiel tilts his head and says nothing until Sam looks away, clearing his throat.

"I have to interrogate him. The monster they brought up already killed six people. We need to find out where they're keeping it in the day."

"Sam."

"Doing it alone isn't smart right now."

"You can trust yourself."

"Yeah. Except for where I really can't."

The demon is tied to a chair sitting in the center of a devil's trap and screams when Sam throws a dose of holy water at it. Ruby's knife is tucked safely into Sam's boot, and though Castiel watches his fingers twitch, curl into fists and relax again, Sam never bends to reach for it. The demon notices too, brown eyes blinking black as it sneers. Sam smashes a handful of salt into its face.

The demon's vessel is a man named James. He is a twenty-seven year old single Father with a daughter and a girlfriend that he loves very much. He wants to ask his girlfriend to marry him, but is afraid to because he can't afford a decent looking ring. Castiel can see the demon's shape, dark and rotting beneath James' skin. The charred claws of its hands dig in tight to the wooden arms of the chair.

The demon spits, rolls its black eyes to Castiel, mouth splitting wide in a grin.

"You—look at _you_, Winchester guardian angel."

Sam splashes it with another cup of holy water, and the demon hisses and reels against the ropes, but keeps talking.

"Standing there and looking at me like that, and I'm just the leftovers of those humans you have such a cosmic hard on for. The dirty stuff they're all made up of." It laughs, throwing its head back, neck lolling from side to side. "This filth is really what you're standing up for whether you want to admit it or not, and you don't even get that, do you? God, it's pathetic."

Sam turns to Castiel, the half-empty bottle in his hand making a sloshing sound with the movement. Castiel closes his eyes and says "You're wasting your time, Sam."

Sam stares at him, waits until Castiel looks back and nods once, barely tipping his jaw, then bends to remove the blade from his boot and steps towards the demon, now gazing at them wide-eyed and rigid.

"Wait—wait!"

Sam raises the knife and an eyebrow.

"You're never going to know if you kill me."

"We're never going to know anyways if you won't talk."

"Shit, wait, listen, just listen—"

Sam presses the blade to its throat and the demon tries to recoil, but there's nowhere for it to go. It chokes and swears and finally spits out "She's keeping it underground!"

"Underground where?"

"I don't know."

"Yeah right."

"I don't! She wouldn't tell me okay? I just know that they're stashing it somewhere in the middle of the city. That's it."

Sam lowers the blade and the demon sags with relief.

"Thanks," Sam says, holds the knife at his side and proceeds to exorcise the demon from James' body as it twitches and writhes. When Sam finishes and cuts the ropes away, he looks at Castiel and frowns. "What?"

"Your accent could use some work," Castiel says, and has no idea why it makes Sam laugh.

--

Sam finds no leads the following day and Castiel divides his time between walking in stride next to him, checking on Dean at the beach house (who insists that he can limp around just fine –_thank you_, Cas, I don't need a babysitter–, but never bothers to actually shoo the angel off) and slowly working his way across Hungary, searching. Castiel knows the Winchesters are capable of fending for themselves, but Sam is desperate and driven and Dean can't stand listening to nothing but the sound of waves and wind and seagulls while his brother is out there doing something –actually _doing_ something, and so Castiel makes his resolve and remains.

When Sam returns to the beach at one in the morning and asks if he's going to hang around, Castiel is very close to accepting, but shakes his head. He can't stay still.

--

In Western Transdanubia Castiel realizes, abruptly, that he could have told the demon: "No. I 'get it'. The second day after my resurrection I passed a woman on the sidewalk that had been repeatedly molested by her Father until she was thirteen. One night she struck him over the head with a baseball bat and was then sent to a correctional facility for six years. I've watched a man drink coffee outside of a café with shaking hands because there was a gun hidden inside his jacket filled with six bullets for his wife. I've brushed shoulders against murders and liars and thieves, looked into the faces of people who were none of those things but still consumed by pride, lust, greed, envy. I once told Dean Winchester 'I see nothing but pain here' and I meant it both then and now. They're tired too, they're all tired of it, but they're not angels and they're not demons so they push on anyways, despite the odds that have been forever stacked against them because they don't know how to stop."

He could have said: "I get it better than you do."

--

Two more days pass with Sam stumbling across nothing. Dean grows antsy from sitting alone in the empty house and begins to text Castiel with mundane things. Castiel almost turns off his phone in Paris, but remembers the last time he did that Dean called a day later and yelled at him about it for nearly twelve minutes.

_there's nothing on tv_

_at least shitty motels have magic fingers_

_even if the mattresses smell like ass_

_can you bring me a six pack?_

_srsly we're out of beer and that's not okay_

_what the fuck is a hellspawn anyways?_

"They're not unlike Hellhounds."

The phone in Dean's hand flies through the air, high enough that it clacks against the low ceiling before sweeping back down to the rug. Dean cranes his neck around and glares at Castiel over his shoulder. Castiel is standing five feet away, leaning against the kitchen counter with the heels of his hands resting on the ledge.

"If that's broken you're buying me a new one. And what ever happened to calling first?"

"I already knew where you were."

"Still, common courtesy and all that."

Castiel blinks.

"Right," Dean says. "Forgot my audience for a sec. So what about hellspawn?"

"They're creatures from the pit that can be summoned to earth."

"You said they were like the hounds."

"They are, but less intelligent. More difficult to control and they burn in direct sunlight. It's rare that they're used for anything on the surface."

"What are they used for in Hell? I don't remember—" Dean frowns, a thin line appearing between his brows, his eyes flicking from Castiel to the floor. "They eat people, don't they?"

"It doesn't matter."

"They're like the fucking scavengers of the underworld."

"Dean."

"Can Sam—"

"Sam has to find it first. By the time he does I'll be there to assist him, or you will if you're well enough to."

"Better be. Gotta tell you Cas, I'm getting real sick of hanging around this house being useless."

"You're not useless."

"Oh, pretty sure I am this week."

Castiel's eyes go to the window. "Is it so bad?"

"Me sitting on my ass while my brother is out there Steve Irwin-ing some satanic vulture? Yeah, that's kind of bad."

"I meant being here."

Dean falls quiet. He goes to the window that Castiel is looking out of and presses his back against the frame, weight settling to his right leg. "The world is ending. A beach that's still sitting pretty doesn't change that."

"But you like it."

"My Dad…" Dean pauses, voice sticking like he's started to say something that he's not entirely sure he wants to finish. Castiel waits.

"When we were kids, hell, Sam couldn't have been more than six, he stashed us away at a cottage while he went off to take down a banshee. There was a lake, and a dock, and a beach. I mean, it was probably nothing compared to this here, but at the time? It just looked so huge and there was so much empty space, and it was kind of amazing, Cas. For a week we got to stay somewhere that wasn't a grimy ass, stinking hotel room and Sammy could actually run around and play like a kid should and—" Dean shrugs. "Yeah, I like the fucking beach. But it doesn't matter, because even this? Ideal vacation spot some rich bastard managed to score for himself? This isn't going to be around a year from now. Hell, probably won't even be around six months from now."

"That—" Castiel's jaw hardens. "You shouldn't speak like that."

Dean laughs. "Just because it's pessimistic doesn't mean it isn't true."

"Then why fight it at all?"

Dean's posture stiffens, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"If you think it's hopeless—"

"I didn't say it was hopeless, but come on man. You know our chances. Don't try to feed me some sugar coded shit about it."

"Then—"

"Because I have to, Cas! I fucking have to." Dean rubs his face. "It's not even about choice anymore."

Castiel is gone before Dean looks back up.

--

Huangshan is cold and a startling contrast to the heat of the beach. Castiel walks along rocky, man-made paths, still tasting salt and water as his breath fogs in the air. Dean's pendant is strangely heavy around his neck, an empty and chilled reminder against his collarbone. There is a coiled, frustrated energy in his muscles and a burn in the pit of his stomach. Castiel sits on a large stone and waits for it to dull.

Three hours later he brings Dean the beer he asked for, putting it on the table next to the guns that Dean is dismantling and putting back together again. Dean doesn't thank him, looks at Castiel with a careful expression that only fades into something hard and far more Dean-like when Castiel places himself into the seat across from him.

"Where'd you flounce off to?"

"Flounce?"

"Never mind."

--

The spawn is being kept in a bomb shelter behind the house of the Wilson family that was slaughtered when a demon possessed their eldest daughter, Melissa. She took a knife from the kitchen, walked upstairs and slit her parents' throats while they slept. Their corpses are still there, bloody and rotting while tucked into soiled, soft blue bed sheets.

Sam can't see the spawn so Castiel stabs Melissa through the bottom of her jaw, Ruby's blade shredding through her tongue and knocking out teeth, and yells at him: "behind you!"

Sam twists around and fires blindly, and the spawn wails and scabbards backwards, leaving a trail of thick black blood that Sam can follow and aim for. He shoots twice more, and then heaves up a heavy red jug of gasoline and sprays it out over the creature.

"Cas!"

But Castiel is already next to him, grabbing Sam's shoulder as he flicks up the top of a lighter and throws the flame. There's a flash of brilliant heat and the sound of the spawn screaming and then Castiel is pulling Sam and himself away and back above ground, into the sunlight. Sam slams the steel doors shit and slips a thick, wooden plank between the handles. The spawn smashes against it twice from the inside, splintering the wood, before there's a low, pathetic howling sound followed by a solid thump.

Sam and Castiel look at each other.

"Well," Sam says, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "That went pretty smoothly."

Castiel nods, flips the knife in his hand and offers it back to Sam, handle first. There's still blood smeared along the blade and Sam's smile disappears. He licks his lips, swallows, and bends to wipe it on the grass, sweeping it across the lawn long after it's wiped clean. His hands are still shaking when he stands, and Castiel makes no comment.

--

The night before Sam and Dean leave the beach house they sit on the porch and eat greasy take out burgers that taste like sand. When Castiel arrives Dean waves the bag at him, grinning, and chokes when Castiel stares and says "That joke is becoming old."

Sam tells Dean about the hunt and Dean complains for a very long time about being left behind. Sam scoffs, tells Dean to think about that the next time he lets a monster use his leg as a chew toy, and the conversation dissolves into bickering that Castiel listens to but doesn't quite manage to follow.

Dean leaves first, stretching his arms and walking back inside, his footing still slightly off-set by his limp. Castiel hears the refrigerator door open and close, the clinking of bottles before the uneven slapping sound of Dean's feet down the hallway. Sam sits in the rocking hair, hands folded in his lap and only the heels of his boots touching the floor.

"Nice place."

"It is."

"Maybe we should come back, when it's over."

Castiel is sitting on the porch steps, elbows on his bended knees. He has to twist his neck around at an odd angle to look at Sam. Sam's expression is blank, sealed in thought. In truth, Sam has no more faith than his brother.

He remains outside alone long after Sam retires, watching the choppy reflection of the moon in the ocean before Castiel spreads his wings and goes to the bedroom that Dean has claimed as his own. Dean is lying on top of the blankets, still dressed and half drunk and not sleeping.

He's been dreaming again, because Dean always dreams.

"Wanna know something?" He says.

Castiel just stands in the dark.

"I don't remember you in Hell. I remember… I remember all that other fucked up stuff, maybe not every minute of it, but enough. Years, Cas. Decades. But I don't remember it stopping, like it's all just on repeat in my head." Dean's eyes are half-lidded, and his smile is a tense line. "I don't remember it stopping because it doesn't stop, does it? You don't go through that, through all that shit, and then just get to walk it off. Not really."

Castiel moves to the side of Dean's bed, kneels down and curves his palm to fit against his temple. His Grace flickers and burns bright for an instant as he nudges Dean towards sleep. Dean blinks, once, twice, and the third time his eyes stay close. Castiel thinks of sitting with him on the beach, six days past, remembers Dean's lazy smile, his calm and the way absolutely nothing was weighing him down.

"You asked what paradise was," Castiel says softly. Dean opens his eyes again, unfocused and glassy and very green.

"Yeah."

"It's not a really a place, Dean. It's satisfaction, fulfillment, peace."

Dean frowns, eyelids fluttering, and says "Oh," because he doesn't understand, because Dean has been fighting since he was four years old and to him tranquility has always been something impermanent and fickle, dangling just out of reach.

The skitter of Dean's thoughts is easy to read when he teeters on the edge of sleep, and Castiel catches _doesn't sound so bad_ and _fuck, fuck it, can't have it won't have it and it's not fucking fair_—

"I know," Castiel says, but Dean isn't awake to hear him.

* * *

end.


End file.
